A DAY IN THE LIFE 1:00 pm – 1:00 am In an attempt to frame the context and content of this book I write this piece based on just one day in the cab. This day is not very different from most days in my cab; there are laughs, deep conversate, and economic and social polarity. This particular day includes a cast of young aggressive chefs, an old lady of southern cooking tradition, a star athlete, a crazy seasoned combat vet, and female coeds who like to party. Each person I encounter offers a chance to relate on a new level, to invoke the rich experience hacking offers. This is a capsule of daily encounters in the taxi, the rich experiences I am nurtured by - mind heart soul and spirit, transformed day in and day out.
12:46 PM Envirocab World Headquarters. I parked my car in the pot-holed parking lot. Entering dispatch front desk I ran into Marco, a seasoned driver filling out his check-in sheet. “Maybe I get the Bigtown run today. Hey, Susan, be sure Philli sends me that high-rolling tipper from Big!” Marc called out across the room. Philli answered, “That takes more than a bottle of scotch… throw in some Aerosmith tickets!” Marco looked at me saying softly, “Guess I settle for three drunks, two whores and another Midtown daydream.” We laughed as I paid my dispatch lease fee, and went out to check over taxi #680. “Hey, Marco”, I shouted, “I got a radio/cd cab. ELO, Miles, and reggae today.” “Rock on, drive safe”, was his reply as we laughed, climbed into our designated cockpits and pulled onto the Midtown streets in anticipation and wonder at what the day holds in Envirocab realm.
1:07 PM Emergency Room pick-up, black woman, around 25, acting ‘poor me’ in the back seat. “My throat was nearly closed shut. I have the flu. I feel I may die.” “Oh, my, that’s terrible. What did they do to relieve your impending suffocation?” “They gave me a shot in my ass that hurt!” “Did that reduce the swelling?” “Oh, yes. I’m feeling better now” Her voice was gentle, and she articulated ‘white’ dialect. I knew she was educated and that she knew both white and black cultures. Now was my chance to break the ice. “Did the shot reduce the swelling in your fat ass?” We both howled with laughter. She went on to offer her story. Tough life, Bigtown near Westside, Jackson and Pulaski, parents dope addicts, raised by the grandmother until she died. Then in and out
of the foster care system. Her sister was her life crutch. Now she is about to graduate with a degree in social work. I replied, “You are fortunate to have had your sister. What about someone with your experience who has no familial support the way you had?” She said her dream is to have a home for teens between 13 and 17 who need a home, temporary or permanent. I complimented her on her drive to accomplish her mission as well as her hair and youthful appearance. We separated, both joyful in our bonding dialog and parting blessings. $3 tip.
1:45 PM I drove to the airport with a team leader from a medical software mogul. She grew up in a wellto-do suburban home, both parents in the medical field, well-educated, world traveler, a proud, young, independent American woman. Having no tech background, she was hired on shear talent and drive to succeed as a team player. Now, after six months, she spends half the month in Amsterdam and the other half at home. She never saw a ghetto or third-world life. We enjoyed a nice conversate on money, marriage, outdoor sports, and corporate burnout. $5 tip I transported a crazy, hyper-energetic, seasoned combat vet home from the V.A hospital. He described killing humans, 3000+ parachute jumps, injured lower back, gas poisoning, PTSD, recovering addictions to heroin, oxi, alcohol, and food. He made it out the other side and now helps vets from Korea, Viet Nam, and younger returning vets dealing with the crushing, life-destroying consequences of combat. I loved his dynamic energy, grounded sense of mission, will to survive, and compassion for those desperate in need. $5 tip. Next was a group shared ride, turning out to be three chefs; two young males, driven in their
youthful exuberance, and an older, less vibrant woman who was a former school lunch cook from Alabama. The young chefs exchanged creative kitchen structure, freedom to express ideas, and their own passionate goals motivating moves through the ranks. The woman was silent until we all laughed when I asked her, “You do this balsamic pressed aged pork belly thing down south?” Once the young chefs were out I delicately extracted, in precise detail, her methodology of fried potatoes, southern style; red potatoes (cause that’s what we grow there), peal, soak in water (to soften ‘em), slice, slow simmer in pork lard, and then (blast ‘em on high to brown ‘em). Total $8 tips. An ex Division II hot-shooting basketball player I had driven many times before entered the cab. He gave me his analysis of coaches Greg Gard and Bo Ryan, the U offense, and his own still-awesome shooting prowess before exiting. I picked up a repeat customer; an older, partially invalid woman. Upon seeing me she apologized for her ‘inappropriate anger” during our last ride when she had read the time wrong and chewed me out for being late, when in actuality, I was early. We enjoyed a nice conversate of her childhood working in her father’s small town newspaper office. $2 tip. The next ride was a shared ride of ‘polarity in motion’- ghetto meets educated foreign culture. The young black woman was going to purchase her first car. The young, Indian computer-wiz was heading to Bigtown to see her family. Two opposite conversates; one of unscrupulous used auto dealers and negotiating hopefully without the eventual ‘young black woman rip off’. The other of higher education, bazaar shopping in Mumbai, karma releasing Ganges pilgrimage, and the Indian town, Devon. $7 in tips. After the culture clash I made a long haul to the Bristol strip club. I learned the amount of my fare’s divorce; $343,426. 87. We conversated electricity, Tom Petty and sexual intercourse. $45 dollar ride. Another shared group ride. A 50-something, divorced, tree hugger woman, chased out of rural redneck Indiana farm country where they hate blacks and ‘hippie’ whites. A young man with awesome cologne headed downtown to party, and a pregnant Bigtown ghetto woman moving to Houston for a change. $8 in tips. From there I picked up a slow moving old lady returning from a tavern to her home in a central trailer park. We laughed about young drinkers’ naivety, and arguing politicians. I helped her out of the cab, brushed the snow from her railing, and as-
sisted her up her stairs, waiting until she unlocked her door. $3 tip. Then another shared ride duet of cultural ‘polarity in motion’. A ghetto 20-year-old cashier from Check Cashiers who was sweet and humorous. We joked and laughed sharing drinking stories, commiserated about getting carded, and discussed counting cash with two finger rolling versus hand to hand. The second rider, a teacher’s assistant at the U majoring in philosophy who spoke of her haunted house, her terrible hair bunned up on her head, and her “bitchy, heart-broken friend” soon to be “white-girl drunk”. I told her I had the perfect ‘hot’ solution for her tortured head-topping bun; a ponytail and barrettes. Cash-Counter and I howled with laughter as T.A., with buffed cheeks and tight whistle lips, raspberried “pppzzzzzzzzz!” for about 27 seconds. $6 in tips.
11:35 PM Segue into a lovely 32-year-old Italian woman with a black belt in karate heading to a party to “kick some guy’s ass” for being rude to her at a bar two nights before. Using two mirrors, she lamented her looks and her hair. I assured her she was beautiful. “Don’t change a thing. Why hang with young, disrespectful men? You deserve more.” As she departed, she looked back in the cab and said, “If you were 20 years younger I’d ask you out.” “Go for it, honey!” I replied with a laugh. $5 tip.
11:45 PM Four younger black women get in arguing that the one who sat in the front was rude. She answered a question by loudly and sharply exclaiming, “NOOO!” A few blocks from destination I was asked if I would drive two of the women to a location close by. “Why should I?” I smarted back. “We have to get ready to party!” My reply, “NOOO!” We all laughed hard and long. The girls said I was the coolest driver and they wanted me again. I didn’t charge for the extra ride and received a $3 tip for my extra effort.
12:15 AM I then picked up a different group of four young women heading to the Westside, all-nude strip club, for two reasons; they were celebrating a 27th birthday and they had never been to a strip club. They asked if I had ever been to one. I said I had never been to a strip club, but as a driver, have developed non-physical friendships with many dancers. We dialoged about being a FIB in Cheesehead Paradise, community protection of the dancers
- above ground racial tension
My twelve-ho due to my unj Dispatch retur Headquarters coffee cup, co the cab, sque and pebbles. E fore I made fo
A DAY IN THE LIFE 1:00 pm – 1:00 am In an attempt to frame the context and content of this book I write this piece based on just one day in the cab. This day is not very different from most days in my cab; there are laughs, deep conversate, and economic and social polarity. This particular day includes a cast of young aggressive chefs, an old lady of southern cooking tradition, a star athlete, a crazy seasoned combat vet, and female coeds who like to party. Each person I encounter offers a chance to relate on a new level, to invoke the rich experience hacking offers. This is a capsule of daily encounters in the taxi, the rich experiences I am nurtured by - mind heart soul and spirit, transformed day in and day out.
12:46 PM Envirocab World Headquarters. I parked my car in the pot-holed parking lot. Entering dispatch front desk I ran into Marco, a seasoned driver filling out his check-in sheet. “Maybe I get the Bigtown run today. Hey, Susan, be sure Philli sends me that high-rolling tipper from Big!” Marc called out across the room. Philli answered, “That takes more than a bottle of scotch… throw in some Aerosmith tickets!” Marco looked at me saying softly, “Guess I settle for three drunks, two whores and another Midtown daydream.” We laughed as I paid my dispatch lease fee, and went out to check over taxi #680. “Hey, Marco”, I shouted, “I got a radio/cd cab. ELO, Miles, and reggae today.” “Rock on, drive safe”, was his reply as we laughed, climbed into our designated cockpits and pulled onto the Midtown streets in anticipation and wonder at what the day holds in Envirocab realm.
1:07 PM Emergency Room pick-up, black woman, around 25, acting ‘poor me’ in the back seat. “My throat was nearly closed shut. I have the flu. I feel I may die.” “Oh, my, that’s terrible. What did they do to relieve your impending suffocation?” “They gave me a shot in my ass that hurt!” “Did that reduce the swelling?” “Oh, yes. I’m feeling better now” Her voice was gentle, and she articulated ‘white’ dialect. I knew she was educated and that she knew both white and black cultures. Now was my chance to break the ice. “Did the shot reduce the swelling in your fat ass?” We both howled with laughter. She went on to offer her story. Tough life, Bigtown near Westside, Jackson and Pulaski, parents dope addicts, raised by the grandmother until she died. Then in and out of the foster care system. Her sister was her life crutch. Now she is about to graduate with a degree in social work. I replied, “You are fortunate to have had your sister. What about someone with your experience who has no familial support the way you had?” She said her dream is to have a home for teens between 13 and 17 who need a home, temporary or permanent. I complimented her on her drive to accomplish her mission as well as her hair and youthful appearance. We separated, both joyful in our bonding dialog and parting blessings. $3 tip.
Then another shared ride duet of cultural ‘polarity in motion’. A ghetto 20-year-old cashier from Check Cashiers who was sweet and humorous. We joked and laughed sharing drinking stories, commiserated about getting carded, and discussed counting cash with two finger rolling versus hand to hand. The second rider, a teacher’s assistant at the U majoring in philosophy who spoke of her haunted house, her terrible hair bunned up on her head, and her “bitchy, heart-broken friend” soon to be “white-girl drunk”. I told her I had the perfect ‘hot’ solution for her tortured head-topping bun; a ponytail and barrettes. Cash-Counter and I howled with laughter as T.A., with buffed cheeks and tight whistle lips, raspberried “pppzzzzzzzzz!” for about 27 seconds. $6 in tips.
1:45 PM
11:35 PM
I drove to the airport with a team leader from a medical software mogul. She grew up in a well-to-do suburban home, both parents in the medical field, well-educated, world traveler, a proud, young, independent American woman. Having no tech background, she was hired on shear talent and drive to succeed as a team player. Now, after six months, she spends half the month in Amsterdam and the other half at home. She never saw a ghetto or third-world life. We enjoyed a nice conversate on money, marriage, outdoor sports, and corporate burnout. $5 tip
Segue into a lovely 32-year-old Italian woman with a black belt in karate heading to a party to “kick some guy’s ass” for being rude to her at a bar two nights before. Using two mirrors, she lamented her looks and her hair. I assured her she was beautiful. “Don’t change a thing. Why hang with young, disrespectful men? You deserve more.” As she departed, she looked back in the cab and said, “If you were 20 years younger I’d ask you out.” “Go for it, honey!” I replied with a laugh. $5 tip.
I transported a crazy, hyper-energetic, seasoned combat vet home from the V.A hospital. He described killing humans, 3000+ parachute jumps, injured lower back, gas poisoning, PTSD, recovering addictions to heroin, oxi, alcohol, and food. He made it out the other side and now helps vets from Korea, Viet Nam, and younger returning vets dealing with the crushing, life-destroying consequences of combat. I loved his dynamic energy, grounded sense of mission, will to survive, and compassion for those desperate in need. $5 tip. Next was a group shared ride, turning out to be three chefs; two young males, driven in their youthful exuberance, and an older, less vibrant woman who was a former school lunch cook from Alabama. The young chefs exchanged creative kitchen structure, freedom to express ideas, and their own passionate goals motivating moves through the ranks. The woman was silent until we all laughed when I asked her, “You do this balsamic pressed aged pork belly thing down south?” Once the young chefs were out I delicately extracted, in precise detail, her methodology of fried potatoes, southern style; red potatoes (cause that’s what we grow there), peal, soak in water (to soften ‘em), slice, slow simmer in pork lard, and then (blast ‘em on high to brown ‘em). Total $8 tips. An ex Division II hot-shooting basketball player I had driven many times before entered the cab. He gave me his analysis of coaches Greg Gard and Bo Ryan, the U offense, and his own still-awesome shooting prowess before exiting. I picked up a repeat customer; an older, partially invalid woman. Upon seeing me she apologized for her ‘inappropriate anger” during our last ride when she had read the time wrong and chewed me out for being late, when in actuality, I was early. We enjoyed a nice conversate of her childhood working in her father’s small town newspaper office. $2 tip. The next ride was a shared ride of ‘polarity in motion’- ghetto meets educated foreign culture. The young black woman was going to purchase her first car. The young, Indian computer-wiz was heading to Bigtown to see her family. Two opposite conversates; one of unscrupulous used auto dealers and negotiating hopefully without the eventual ‘young black woman rip off’. The other of higher education, bazaar shopping in Mumbai, karma releasing Ganges pilgrimage, and the Indian town, Devon. $7 in tips. After the culture clash I made a long haul to the Bristol strip club. I learned the amount of my fare’s divorce; $343,426. 87. We conversated electricity, Tom Petty and sexual intercourse. $45 dollar ride. Another shared group ride. A 50-something, divorced, tree hugger woman, chased out of rural redneck Indiana farm country where they hate blacks and ‘hippie’ whites. A young man with awesome cologne headed downtown to party, and a pregnant Bigtown ghetto woman moving to Houston for a change. $8 in tips. From there I picked up a slow moving old lady returning from a tavern to her home in a central trailer park. We laughed about young drinkers’ naivety, and arguing politicians. I helped her out of the cab, brushed the snow from her railing, and assisted her up her stairs, waiting until she unlocked her door. $3 tip.
11:45 PM Four younger black women get in arguing that the one who sat in the front was rude. She answered a question by loudly and sharply exclaiming, “NOOO!” A few blocks from destination I was asked if I would drive two of the women to a location close by. “Why should I?” I smarted back. “We have to get ready to party!” My reply, “NOOO!” We all laughed hard and long. The girls said I was the coolest driver and they wanted me again. I didn’t charge for the extra ride and received a $3 tip for my extra effort.
12:15 AM I then picked up a different group of four young women heading to the Westside, all-nude strip club, for two reasons; they were celebrating a 27th birthday and they had never been to a strip club. They asked if I had ever been to one. I said I had never been to a strip club, but as a driver, have developed non-physical friendships with many dancers. We dialoged about being a FIB in Cheesehead Paradise, community protection of the dancers - above ground and underground, sexual adventures spawned in the taxi, higher education, parenting, and racial tension in our communities. $10 tip. My twelve-hour driving time limit was up. I Skyped dispatch alerting them I was, by law, heading back due to my unjust twelve hour limit, “ Heading in. 12 hours coming fast. Ty dispatch. A fun Envirocab day. Dispatch returned a Skype, “TY for your hard work!” I drove quickly, not fast, back to Envirocab World Headquarters. I pulled through the pot-holed parking lot to my car. I systematically emptied the cab of coffee cup, cooler, purse, and pepper spray canister. I rolled my hybrid chariot into the wash bay, washed the cab, squeegeed the windows, and vacuumed the rider flotsam and jetsam of candy wrapper pieces and pebbles. Entering dispatch front desk, I related a couple of the day’s adventures. We all laughed before I made for home to rest, prepping for another day of living the taxi realm dream.
~Carman Storries, 2016
KC Man: April, Friday night, 10 pm
I found Bigtown
I picked up a handsome younger black man from Fitchburg, destination 600-block State Street. We smiled, connecting and exchanging greetings. He was pleasant and spoke ‘white vernacular’. “How has your night been driving?” “Busy, tips OK, I been hit on once, had some nice conversates. How about you? What you looking for, high, sex, money, pleasant conversate, all of ‘em?” Laughing he replied directly, “I’m gonna get laid.” “You meeting someone?” “No, I usually take my pick.” “What you picking tonight?” “Tonight I am going to fuck a lovely, blonde, slender coed.” “You’re that fussy? You profile?” We both laughed. “Where you from?” “Kansas City.” “You been in town long?” “No, I came here from Bigtown about six months ago. Before that I was in NYC. My sister had a bad break up a couple years back. She invited me out. I was working construction in KC, had some money saved up, no relationships, so I went to the Bronx and lived with my sister. We get along well. She leaned on me real hard ‘til she healed up a bit. She got some money saved; found another relationship, so I took an invite to Bigtown from an old KC friend. I found Bigtown didn’t like out of hooders. I came to Midtown. Here Bigtown runs the street like State Street. Big boys here in Midtown don’t like out of towners like me if you’re not Bignigger.” “What do they do?” “They make things difficult for you. Like move in on a girl I’m working or being worked by. They surround me while I’m talking to a chick. If you’re not from Bigtown or a gang member it can be a bit unnerving. I usually use the restroom in an adjacent bar down the street. I won’t go in to pee if they’re around watching me. There’s too much shit going down in the washrooms anyway.
didn’t like out of hooders. I came to Midtown. Here Bigtown runs the street like State Street. Big boys here in Midtown don’t like out of towners like me if you’re not Bignigger. “What’s it like in Midtown compared to other towns? Is it easy to score? What type of women you hang with?” “I traveled in the military and I’ve been around the U.S. There is more fucking in Midtown, paid for and not paid for than any city I been in. I’m 36; they all think I look 25. I was dating only black women for a long time. I like black ladies. It turned out it always came to the same eventuality, like a script. I got tired of it. SOS. It was great for two months then they turn on the drama. I don’t argue and carry on. Jesus, they’re all roadkill; bruised, scared, two or three kids following behind and they’re only 22.” “Who you doing now? You have preference? What are the different ethnics like?” “I moved on to Asians and Hispanics. I’m fucking an Asian girl now. She’s nice. Kinda shy, says she doesn’t know a lot and is willing to try new things. Met her at a coffee shop on State Street.” “How far you taking her?” “Not far, I don’t kink a lot, well, sometimes. I like to just get laid. Something steady and sweet.” “What are the white girls like?” “They’re the best. They’ll do anything and they love taking my nut. The black women seldom want it.” We arrived at the 600-block of State. “Park the cab, lets go in together. You’ll get laid. They usually come out in pairs. They’ll score an older man, you’re a stud.” Laughing, “Have fun, man.” We both departed into the night, he on foot, and me in the cab.
RIPOFF: April, 12:45 AM I received a call for a Gannon Road pickup, destination State Street. I pull into the Mobil station thinking sarcastically, “I don’t see anyone. WTF, this oughta’ be good.” Just then, two 17 or 18 year old black men appear and enter the rear passenger side door. As I put the car in gear one of the riders opened his door and stepped one leg out making comments to a lovely, young black woman exiting the mini mart and entering her car. “Hey!, Get in or get out,” I ordered as politely as possible with a softened voice. “If you’re in my cab keep your comments to yourself.” He ducked back in and sat. “State Street? You know the address or business you’re going to?” “I know where, it’s by Brats.” They whispered back and forth and worked their cell phones, then queried, “Taximan, you take us over by Vera Courts?”
I don’t want to ride in cabs. You white people are charging us too much.
mentally and emotionally, the incident slid away like water off a duck’s back. I heard my mother saying, “Take the bitter with the sweet”. I laughed as I drove to the next fare, my chest pains diminished. I was glad to be driving an EnviroCab.
a Skype saying the lady would pay tomorrow. “Yeah right,” I Skyped back. I never received the fare.
June, 10:30 PM
I picked up a young black woman I’d driven before. This call was a short six-dollar ride, driving her to a Middleville apartment from West Town. We bonded last spring as she told me her story, got out of Bigtown, never goes back, face and arms scarred during a knife fight while in Cook County jail, drug abuse, working the southside streets at 17. She moved to Midtown three years ago, now waitressing and working factory assembly.
Picked up a Westside fare going central. After driving a mile or so the man told me he had six dollars. I responded, “the fare is nine dollars, six, that’s all you have?” “Eh”, was his reply, the mumble grunt meaning yes in ghetto vernacular.
As we pulled up she informed me she was short on money, saving for a car. I said, “Honey, I usually get paid for the work I do.”
I continued to drive, fast. Another fare came up on my iPad, pickup central mall, and destination far Eastside. I drove to the 2nd fare and as I pulled up I told the short-fared rider, “this is as far as I’m taking you, get out now or drive east.”
“I’ll give you 15 minutes Hon, turn off the cab, I’ll let you inside.” “You know I don’t go there; keep the fare, go on, love ya baby.” She kissed my cheek and departed. I drove to the next fare. I drove a round trip from a Gannon Road slave quarters to and from a gas station. I thought, “man, that’s a short ride for 15 dollars. Why don’t these black people walk or ride a bicycle? This guy must have money to burn. Maybe he’s a bagman, making a drop or pickup.”
“Aw man, come on!” “Okay, but the fare will be more. I called dispatch and changed destination. “22 now from 14. You got “This is the six dollar ride. Your choice, stay in or get it?” out, I’m not stopping again until East Town.” He exited into the rain. “Yeah, I got 19 dollah and will get 3 mo’ from my aun’ie when we sto’.” The fare I picked up worked men’s wear at Macy’s, “What address on Vera’s?” “803” Rain driving as hard as I was, I pull up to 803 Vera Ct. Out the door they flew running way faster than I could. “Those little shits, I’ll never catch them, maybe they’re hiding behind the building.” I got out, reevaluated the situation. Choosing safety over walking around slave quarters at 2 AM in a driving rain, I got back in the cab, related the incident to dispatch and drove off. Dispatch flagged the number. “I’ve had enough of this shit…settle down, take a breath or three. Those black bastards, I wonder how karma will get them back?” I tried to put the incident in perspective anyway I could.
As we drove he told me he had a day off and was glad to get away from his 2-year- old son whom he chased around his apartment for the last three hours.
after retiring from men’s retail in Manhattan, New York. I was then enlightened on the art of finely tailored threadery.
I picked up a weekday fare, an older black man, on Thompson at 5 PM heading to the far west side of town, a $21 ride. I had a Smoky Robinson cd playing. He loved the music and started talking Bigtown in the 60’s. He grew up in southeast Bigtown, and went to CVS for high school. His father worked the steel mills. He was recruited to go to Simeon High School for his basketball skills. He had family here and just now finally got out of BigTown. He was in his 60’s; a worn out survivor, beat up, hobbling, and seemingly just half alive. As our conversate shifted to the greatness of Muhammad Ali I pulled up to a newly renovated west side apartment, U-Haul out front, construction material strewn about the yard.
I thought of Milton Friedman’s definition of busi“My sister will give you her credit card number over ness, “business is profit and loss, hopefully at the the phone, okay?” end of the month you profit more than you lose.” I recalled the ups and downs of my own financial life “Yeah, that’s fine.” I ran four card numbers, all declined. She told me she had no cash and would – the feast and famine as an entrepreneur, growing come into dispatch tomorrow to pay. Disgusted, I pains in business, account swings at the Merc. politely told the man to get out. Dispatch sent me De-stressing, I felt a non-binding detachment
“Welcome to fatherhood, did you know it was like this?” I asked. “No, hopefully it won’t last long.” He took about three minutes in the convenience store and reentered the cab carrying a small bag. We returned to a different apartment in the same project. He asked, “How much is it?” I told him, “15 dollars.” “What? Just to go to the store and back? That’s a rip off!” “Dispatch informs you of the amount before the ride is booked. If you want to drive around in cabs, you gotta pay for it. Round trip isn’t cheap.” “I don’t want to ride in cabs.” You white people are charging us too much.” “You paying 15 dollars? “No way. Here’s 8”, handing me 8 dollars. I was disgusted. “Get the fuck out. Go back to Africa.” I shouted. He departed into the night. I called dispatch, relayed what had transpired, and how disgusted I was with being fleeced and the prevailing racism I regularly encounter. Prejudices emerge in my mind as I try to think love and compassion for all beings, while feeling a general resentment toward young, black males. I thought, “Your pants are falling off and you talk like a drunk with a mouth full of horse apple. Wear a belt, speak English, and work.”
LIGHTWOMAN I was sent a fare to a central-city slave quarters. I watched a heavy black woman walk to the cab from about 30 yards away. Her clothes were worn but clean, and certainly not in fashion. My mind, tired from a long day of driving, spontaneously judged and profiled. “Oh boy, another overweight Afro-American woman. How many Cheetos and sugar drinks did she have today? Then I paused, noticing that she walked differently. “What’s this? What’s she got going on?” Looking away after the first read, out of the corner of my eye, I intuitively sensed she had something special, something different than most fares I have.
We exchanged greetings as she entered the rear passenger side. “Hi, how are you?” I inquired. “Oh, I’m okay, a little tired, but I’ll manage just fine.” “Ann Street, where you going there, the hotel?” “I’m going to the church in the old car rental building.” “You’re going to church on Monday night? Did you attend on the weekend?”
I am covered in the Savior Light.
I have seen Jesus three times in my life, not Mary, the Light flows from Him to me.”
“Oh, yes, I was there Friday and Sunday.” Words flowed intuitively from my mind and heart without a thought, “do you merge in the Light?” “Oh you know it. I see the Light whenever I go.” “Wow, that’s beautiful. What’s your experience? Do you see the light with eyes open or closed? Is it in front of you in the effulgent form of Jesus or Mary or both? You copping it from angels?” “I am covered in the Savior Light. I have seen Jesus three times in my life, not Mary, the Light flows from Him to me.” “Is the Light outside and inside of you?” “Oh yes, I see it and It enters me. It is in me and outside surrounding me. I feel it fill me so sweetly.” ”You are so blessed to have that Grace. Do you get that experience just in church or are you able to have that anytime in your daily life at will?” “I can get it any time, but it’s more intense at church.” “What do you feel? What does it do for you?” “It smooths me out, takes away all my cares. I don’t worry about anything. It feels so good, almost indescribable, it feels better than anything else I could ever feel.” We arrived at the church, buzzing with activity in the parking lot. Most of the Afro-American crowd dressed nicer than Lightwoman, in Sunday best suits and richly colored long dresses. Lightwoman paid, 6$ fare, 2$ tip. “Cosmic shower time, God bless you ma’am.” Laughing, departing the right rear door, “God bless you too, sir.”